


The Dawning Light

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Art Of Seduction [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock PoV of John's first night after coming home from the hospital.</p>
<p>Written for Trillsabells's birthday, because she's an awesome human being.</p>
<p>Betaed by JustLikeLuna. Thank you so much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dawning Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trillsabells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/gifts).



John kept slumping further and further down, wincing every time he did so. With each slump Sherlock had to fit the urge to wince as well, which must be a side-effect of how expressive John's face was. His pain was so obvious that it was transmitting to Sherlock as if he could actually feel it.

Jon Pertwee claimed to be every kind of scientist and the unconscious contented smile that John only seemed to wear when The Doctor was onscreen appeared. Sherlock had come so close to never seeing that smile again – god only knew what plans Jim had had for John's mouth. One of his previous victims had had his mouth stitched together, while another had been missing his lips entirely. Sherlock pictured John like that and then was forced to abruptly concentrate back on the events on Uxarieus to keep himself from being violently sick.

John twitched uncomfortably and moved down on the sofa again, clearly trying to find a position where his chest didn't hurt him. It meant that he moved even closer to Sherlock, their thighs pressing together, and Sherlock thought about just picking John's legs up and pulling them into his lap so that John could lie down flat on his back. The vision of what it would be like to have John draped across him felt completely, vividly real for a moment, so much so that he felt bereft when he blinked and it was gone, and he was only touching John in one, small place again.

_Must be the lack of sex,_ he thought. He hadn't run an experiment since Friday and he usually started to get bored and frustrated long before this point. The desire to pull John close didn't quite feel like that, though. Instead of flashing up with all the sexual positions that they could get into on the sofa, his mind seemed to be far more interested in just reaching out and touching John. Most of the images in Sherlock's head didn't even involve them taking their clothes off.

It must be because John was injured, he decided. His brain was aware that there was almost nothing sexual that they could do without hurting John further, and so was just concentrating on the kind of seduction techniques that would mean John would be available for Sherlock to have sex with once he was healed.

The credits of the episode began to play and Sherlock realised that he had no idea how The Master had been vanquished; his focus had been entirely on John. Hopefully this wouldn't be one of the times that John would choose to quiz him on the details of Doctor Who to make sure he was paying attention. In the early days, before Sherlock had come to appreciate Doctor Who enough to focus on it, John had once caught him restructuring his Mind Palace during an episode that he felt was particularly important and had thrown a tantrum so large that it had put the 'no used condoms in my living space' one (the previous contender for 'the most angry I have ever seen John') in the shade. For a while afterwards, he had taken to randomly quizzing Sherlock about alien technology and time travel to make sure he was paying attention.

“I'm going to have to go to bed,” said John.

Sherlock noted the phrasing. He didn't actually want to go – in fact, from his tone, it seemed he wanted to stay on the sofa with Sherlock almost as much as Sherlock wanted him to.

Sherlock glanced at him and noted all the places where his muscles were tense, as well as the pained furrow on his forehead. He might want to stay, but it was obvious that his injuries weren't going to allow him to. Sherlock felt a sudden surge of fierce hatred of Jim that he had to push down. That wasn't useful – Jim was already dealt with. Wasting further emotion on him was unproductive.

There was also no sense in keeping John up when he was in pain. “We can watch the other ones tomorrow.”

He remembered how difficult John had found it to get dressed at the hospital and stood up to help him up from his slump. John had to rest almost his entire weight on Sherlock to pull himself upright and Sherlock was struck again by how easy it would be to pull him closer and hold on to him.

_I will not be having sex with John,_ He reminded himself firmly. _Not now, and not in the future. There is no point in touching him like that, as it will not lead to either sexual data or an orgasm._

He couldn't seem to bring himself to let go of John's arms, though. Feeling the solid warmth of John’s body was enough to start melting the ice-cold lump in his chest that had formed when he burst into the torture chamber and got his first glimpse of the bloody mess that Jim had made of John.

“Tomorrow? I thought you'd be going out tomorrow,” said John.

Sherlock couldn't imagine leaving John on his own just yet, not even so that he could have sex. He'd barely been able to leave John alone when he'd been in hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses and other patients, not to mention the hospital security guards. Leaving him alone in 221B, where anything could happen to him and only Mrs. Hudson would be within shouting distance, was out of the question. 

“Probably not,” said Sherlock in the most off-hand manner he could manage. “I think the clubs can survive without me for another night.”

“Right,” said John, sounding uncertain. Sherlock was holding him closely enough that he could see all the lines on his face that signalled his weariness and confusion. He was hit by a wave of emotion that was almost overpowering. How was it possible that John just being himself was enough to cause Sherlock so much delighted contentment?

Despite their proximity, it still felt like Sherlock wasn't close enough. He wanted to bend his head and rest his forehead against John's, slide his hands up to John's shoulders and gently pull him in so that their bodies were resting against each other.

John would let him. Sherlock had spent years learning how to tell just how far a man would let you go, and how to manipulate him into letting you go far further than he was expecting. He wouldn't need to manipulate John at all to get that close to him. John would let him do anything – kiss him, even. Lower him back to the sofa so that Sherlock could kneel before him and bury his face in the skin of his belly where he could be surrounded by his smell, and the warmth that meant he was alive.

There were times when Sherlock felt he didn't get enough credit for the fact that his willpower was all that was keeping him and John from having sex. Five years was a long time to deny himself that pleasure.

John cleared his throat. “Right, I'm off then,” he said. He sounded tense and awkward, and Sherlock knew that he'd been thinking about closing the distance between them too.

_Both of us thinking the same thought._ He rather liked the idea – they might never have sex in reality, but in their imaginations, they'd done it hundreds of times - possibly thousands by this point.

John was starting to look rather flustered and Sherlock stepped away to allow him some space. Indulging in closeness was one thing, but it didn't take much for it to cross over into a subtle form of torture. John might not feel as strongly about sex as Sherlock did, but he was still a red-blooded man and there was only so much he could take. Pushing at his limits when there wasn't going to be any fulfilment was just cruel.

“Good night,” he said, and John managed to return it before he scurried away to his room.

Sherlock wondered if he was going to masturbate, a thought that threw up some interesting mental images, but decided, regretfully, that it seemed unlikely given John's injuries and tiredness. Sherlock wasn't injured or even particularly tired though, so he headed to his room to make up for John’s infirmity. If he made an effort to make it last twice as long, then it would be like he was masturbating for both of them. The thought sent a rather delicious shiver down his spine, straight to the base of his cock. He rested his hand gently over the top of it, feeling it harden with anticipation, but he didn't put any real pressure on it until he was settled on his bed with the door firmly shut. That was one of John's rules.

He started slowly, unbuttoning his shirt with his eyes shut so that he could imagine John doing it for him. He had a whole host of fantasies involving John that he'd developed over the years for just this purpose. They'd only been living together for a few days when Sherlock discovered that all of the factors he used to rate his self-pleasure sessions were increased by the addition of mental images involving John. After a great deal of experimentation in order to discover the parameters of this variable, he had settled into the habit of always including such thoughts in his solitary experiments – and, occasionally, those that required a partner as well, if it wasn't going to affect the data too much.

If Sherlock had actually kissed John in the living room, they would be together on his bed right now. John would be straddled over Sherlock's lap, removing his clothes between kisses. His shirt would already be off – abandoned somewhere in the kitchen. Sherlock mentally removed John's current injuries so that his chest was whole and perfect, lightly covered with golden hairs and subtly muscled, with only the scar from his bullet wound to mar it. This was his fantasy, after all, he didn't need to let Jim ruin in.

Sherlock pulled off his shirt and ran his hands over his chest, stopping briefly to tweak his nipples. John would bend his mouth to them rather than use his hands, kissing down Sherlock's neck before he reached them. Sherlock often caught John absently eyeing his neck – it wasn't hard to extrapolate that he would enjoy applying his mouth to it, given the chance.

There was a soft thump from upstairs and Sherlock froze as his attention was abruptly wrenched back into reality. Was John okay? Had he hurt himself? Sherlock had a sudden mental image of Jim looming over John as he lay in his bed, hurting him while Sherlock was oblivious below.

No. No, that couldn't happen. Jim was locked up. John was safe.

Sherlock ran his hand back down his body to rest at his waist, but the mood was gone. He couldn't pull himself away from the irrational worry that something might have happened to John. He got up and cracked his door open in the hope of hearing some sign from John that he was okay.

There was nothing, so he moved out into the corridor and down to the hallway, keeping his weight off the floorboards that he knew creaked until he was paused at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he should go up.

There was another thump from above, more easily recognisable as a small object falling to the floor from this proximity than it had been in Sherlock's bedroom, followed by a soft, familiar curse. The tension in Sherlock's chest relaxed. John was just being clumsy – no doubt a product of his injuries and tiredness. He was in no danger.

Sherlock retreated back to his room and settled on the bed again. He didn't pick up where he had left off, though. Somehow, the idea of bringing himself off by thinking about John while John was in pain seemed wrong, although he couldn't have said why.

He let out a sigh and tipped his head back against his headboard, looking up at the underside of his lube rack. He tried to remember the last time he had started to masturbate and then given up merely because he wasn't in the mood. He couldn't remember it ever happening. Was there something wrong with him?

No, he decided firmly. Of course not. It was the unprecedented emotional upheaval of the last few days. He just needed to get some sleep and then he'd be fine. He could continue the fantasy in the morning – or create a new one. The thought of waking up next to John was rather pleasing, or even being woken up _by_ John. He wondered what it was like to be woken up by a tongue running along your collarbone or a mouth sucking your cock down. That was an experiment he would very much like to run, but he couldn't imagine ever trusting anyone enough to let them into his room while he was sleeping. Well, no-one except John, but any such encounter with him was confined entirely to fantasies. He couldn't risk losing anything of what they had just for the sake of an experiment.

That thought brought to mind just how close he had come to losing everything. If he hadn't recognised Jim's footprint, or if Toby hadn't been able to put him in contact with David, or if Jim had just been in a bit more of a hurry to kill John, then he would be all alone now. A life without John was so horrifying that he couldn't even contemplate it without wanting to go back up the stairs to make sure that John was still there.

_No,_ he thought firmly. He needed to get control of himself. He'd go to bed, he decided. He'd get some sleep and when he woke up, he could get things back to how they should be, starting with a nice, long wank while imagining John sucking him off beneath the duvet.

****

He couldn't find John. The Criterion was packed with men, many of whom looked like John from behind but when Sherlock tapped their shoulders, they turned around to reveal blank spaces where their faces should be.

He fought his way through the packed dancefloor to the bar, hoping John would be there, buying himself a pint and getting Sherlock water at the same time. He had to find him, it was extremely important, although he couldn't remember why.

When he got to the bar, the only person there was Greg.

“Have you seen John?” Sherlock asked him.

Greg shook his head. “He's not in here, mate.”

Sherlock frowned and turned away. If John wasn't in here, where could he be? He pushed his way to the door and out onto the streets of London. There was a familiar figure across the road, huddled in a black jacket and scurrying through the rain. Sherlock chased after him, calling John's name. When he caught him, though, it wasn't John at all – it was Toby.

“I could be John for you,” he suggested with a wink.

Sherlock scowled. “No good,” he said. “It has to be him.”

They were standing on the top of the Eye and he turned to take in the city, trying to spot John in the streets below. There was no-one there but strangers. Everyone was in a couple, holding hands and strolling along the river, embracing in the shadows, sitting together in the parks. Sherlock looked back at Toby to see that he'd been joined by Molly. She wasn't wearing a top and Toby's hands were clasped to her breasts as they kissed.

“Ugh,” said Sherlock. “Do you have to?”

Toby pulled away for a moment. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone's pairing off, Sherlock. You better find someone soon, or you'll end up with Sebastian.”

Sebastian appeared in the distance, eyes fixed on Sherlock with a lascivious look. 

Sherlock shuddered. “I need John.”

“Have you looked at home?” asked Molly as Toby opened the clasp on her bra.

Of course, John would be there, ensconced in his armchair with a newspaper and a cup of tea. Sherlock turned away from Toby and Molly's revolting display and jumped down from the Eye, landing with a flurry of coat tails. Sebastian was drawing closer and he hurried to get away, passing Mycroft and Greg pressed together as he ran down Whitehall.

The door of 221 was open when he got there. Sherlock ran up the stairs, calling John's name. When he reached their sitting room, John was there, exactly as he'd pictured him, hidden behind a newspaper.

“John,” said Sherlock, relieved. “Thank god you're here. We need to have sex.”

He stepped forward and put his hand out to John, dislodging the newspaper. John's face was pale and slack, his eyes gazing sightlessly at nothing, and Sherlock started back in horror.

“John?” he gasped. “No, god, John, please be here.” He dropped to his knees and shook John's shoulders. John's body moved like a ragdoll under his hands.

“Johnny's gone,” said a pleased voice behind him, and Sherlock whirled to see Jim in the corner, twirling a knife in his hands. “You'll have to have sex with me, instead.” His grin broadened and Sherlock heard himself bite back a revolted, choked noise.

“Now, now,” said Jim, tossing aside the knife and starting to take his clothes off. “No point in making a fuss. You know it has to happen.”

Sherlock looked back at John, hoping for a reprieve, but there was nothing there but an empty corpse. Horror clutched at his heart and he woke up with a start.

His pulse was thumping in his ears and he could hear himself gasping for air. God, was that what it was like for John when he had his nightmares? No wonder he always looked so shaken when he came down to make tea.

John. Sherlock could still see the image of his dead corpse as clearly as if it had been real. As irrational as it was, he couldn't help feeling that it must still be out there in the sitting room, proof that Sherlock had been left alone by the only friend he'd ever had.

He got out of bed with graceless movements and lurched into the sitting room, turning on the light to reveal that John's chair was as empty as it had been when he went to bed. It wasn't enough to reassure him. He stumbled upstairs to John's room, unable to resist the burning need to see John alive and well. The images in his dream had been too real – he had to prove to himself that they had been nothing but a trick played on him by his subconscious.

John's room was lighter than Sherlock's because of the streetlights outside glowing through the curtains. It was enough to illuminate John's slumbering form, but Sherlock couldn't start to calm the panic in his heart until he'd moved right to the side of the bed and watched the gentle movement of John's chest for a minute or two.

He was there. He was alive. It should be enough.

It wasn't. Sherlock had to clutch his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out to touch John. Instead, he just stood where he was, watching John sleep and falling into what felt like a trance state, in which the only thing that was important was the movement of John's lungs and the quiet sound of his breathing.

John woke up without any warning, his whole body flinching just before his eyes flew open and then focused on Sherlock. He let out a cry and tried to sit up from the stack of pillows half-propping him up, but collapsed back with a pained grunt when it pulled at his injuries. He fumbled an arm out for his bedside lamp and turned it on.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He lay still, gasping, and Sherlock wondered if he should be apologising, or helping in some way. He couldn't seem to bring himself to move, though, still caught in the half-asleep state that he had settled into as he watched John.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” asked John eventually.

Sherlock wondered if he should think up a lie, but he didn't have time before his mouth opened and the truth poured out. “I just needed to check you were here,” he said. He didn't sound like himself, which seemed fair as he didn't really feel like himself right now either.

“You scared the crap out of me,” said John.

That was bad. John had suffered enough fear over the last few days without Sherlock adding to it.

“Sorry,” he offered. That didn't seem enough. Some sort of explanation was probably necessary. “I had an unpleasant dream,” he added. There, John would understand that – he had enough nightmares of his own.

John let out a long sigh. “Me too,” he confessed, as if it hadn't been obvious from the way he'd woken up.

“You were gone,” said Sherlock, still trying to explain why he was in John's room in the middle of the night. “I came to make sure you were still here, and then-” and then what? That should have been it – a quick check to reassure the lizard part of his brain that John was still here and alive, and then he should have gone back to his room and left John in peace. 

“I found it hard to leave,” he finished, which was true but didn't really resolve what was wrong with him tonight. Nothing about his actions had been rational – even before his nightmare. He should have been able to just masturbate and go to sleep, and stay asleep until the morning. Nothing was making sense any more and, worse, his brain was still more concerned with watching the signs of John's continued existence than in working out what was happening to him.

He wondered, abstractly, if he was ill.

“Okay,” said John. There was an awkward silence in which Sherlock was probably expected to say good night and go back downstairs. He didn't move. “Are you going to be here much longer?” asked John.

Sherlock tried to say, 'No, I'm going now', but he couldn't bring his mouth to open, let alone get his feet to move him away from John. “I'm not sure,” he said instead.

John nodded as if that response was perfectly normal, rather than completely out of character for Sherlock. “You may as well get in then,” he said, and held up the corner of the duvet in invitation.

Sherlock was taken back to his dream and why he had been looking for John in it. “For sex?” he asked.

“No, idiot,” said John. “Beds don't always mean sex, you know.” Sherlock was disappointed, and then wondered why. He wasn't going to have sex with John – he'd made that decision, and stuck by it, for years. He shouldn't be disappointed, he should be relieved that he wouldn't have to let John down. 

“If you're going to be watching me,” added John, “you might as well do it lying down – you might manage to fall asleep again that way. Besides, I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep with you standing there like that.”

That made sense. “Ah. Right,” said Sherlock. He moved towards John and climbed in next to him, noting how much more willing his body was to do that than it had been to go back downstairs.

John turned the light out and settled back down. His body was now so close that Sherlock could feel the warmth of it creeping towards him under the duvet and the motion of his breathing through the mattress. It was far more reassuring as proof that he was alive than merely watching had been.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, but John was already asleep again.

It had been years since Sherlock had been in the same bed as someone who was asleep. He'd spent the night in Victor's bed at university once, before he realised that he was never going to get any sleep there. The next time, he’d slipped away to his own room instead. Victor had taken that badly, along with Sherlock’s announcement that if they were going to continue sleeping together, he was going to have to sleep with other men as well, or he’d get far too bored. It hadn't been long after that that Sherlock's one ill-fated attempt at a relationship had collapsed. Mycroft had tried to tell him that he’d gone about it in the wrong way and that he needed to try it with someone he knew he’d get along with, rather than just the first person he met on the day he decided to give a relationship a try. Sherlock couldn’t imagine that the outcome would be any different if he actually knew the person he was being forced to have monogamous sex with.

John's sleep was not like Victor's. He didn't reach out in his sleep with possessive arms, burying Sherlock under sweaty limbs that had to be carefully moved away so as not to wake him. He just lay against his pillows, relaxed and peaceful. His breathing took on a rasping note – not loud enough to be true snoring, but a reassuring sign that he was alive and that his lungs were still working despite the abuse Jim had heaped on his chest.

The leftover panic from Sherlock's dream began to fade away, leaving behind a feeling of contentment that reminded him of Sunday evenings. He wondered what it was about John that meant his mere presence was enough to have such an impact on Sherlock's mood, and then what effect that would have on a sexual encounter with him. Would it enhance the sensations and elongate the sense of afterglow, or would it dim the passion as if it had been wrapped in a blanket?

He found it hard to believe that last one would be true. Just lying here with John was enough to make lust begin to coil in his belly – partially because of the heavy association in his mind between sharing a bed and sex, but also in the same way that being physically close to John always made Sherlock think of touching his skin and tasting his lips. Was it the fact that Sherlock hadn't had John that made the want so strong, or was it some other factor? There would be no way of knowing without finally giving in to the lust and seeing what emotions he had towards John afterwards.

John made a quiet noise, shifted slightly, and then stilled with a grunt as the movement pulled on his injuries. Sherlock froze, wondering if he was going to wake up again, but after a moment his breath evened out again.

The reminder of John's injuries and that he was in constant pain, even while he slept, filled Sherlock with white-hot anger at Jim. How dare he lay even one finger on John? There was a sickening sense of loss as well, even though the thing he had stood to lose was still here with him. It could so easily have been different though. John could be dead right now, nothing but an abused and mutilated corpse, leaving Sherlock as alone as he had been in his dream.

He'd never have lain here with a sleeping John then. He'd have lost his chance at ever having sex with him as well, thought Sherlock, and then realised, with some surprise, that he had always assumed that one day he and John would have sex, despite his decision that it was not worth the risk of losing their friendship. It had just always seemed to be something that would inevitably happen, either because his willpower would eventually weaken, or he'd have run out of other men to experience, or it would just seem as if the time had finally come.

_It never would have, if Jim had killed him,_ he thought, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

John moved again, one arm shifting towards Sherlock by a few inches, but stopping before it touched him. Sherlock looked at it, at the familiar lines of John's body, and wondered when he had memorised all John's dimensions. He reached out a finger and gently touched the back of John's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin. He was alive and real, and Sherlock would still be able to have sex with him, one day in the future when it seemed right to him.

His eyelids were beginning to sag. He let them slide shut, happy to cut of his view of John now that he had his hand under his finger as proof that he was there.

_I must keep him safe,_ he thought drowsily. _I can't risk being without him._

It was only moments before he fell asleep that he realised, with some surprise, that that's what he was doing.

****

When he woke up, the sun had risen. He blinked his eyes open to see John still in front of him, although he'd pulled his hand away at some time in the night. He looked relaxed and peaceful, and Sherlock smiled automatically at the sight of him.

 _This is a good way to wake up,_ he thought drowsily. _It should happen again._

A moment after the thought, he was awake enough to realise the problem with it. It was extremely unlikely that he ever would wake up like this again. John had only invited Sherlock into his bed last night out of a sense of camaraderie between two men who had experienced nightmares. Expecting it to happen again was foolish. 

He sat up, leaning back against the headboard. His thoughts of the previous night came back to him, appearing to be just as unrealistic and sleep-tinged. Sex with John was not an inevitable part of their future – John was looking for a relationship, after all. He was not the kind of man who engaged in infidelity, and even if he did, the guilt afterwards would likely kill their friendship. Not to mention that Jim was not the only thing that might lead to John's untimely demise. Putting aside the accidents that could befall him and the diseases that might choose to make their home in him, John was still the kind of man who ran towards a fight rather than away. The first night they had gone to the Criterion together, he had taken on four homophobes with no better weapon than an empty bottle. If one of them had had a knife, John could easily have been taken from Sherlock before he even got to know him properly.`

The realisation flooded Sherlock with a cold feeling that he couldn't name. He watched John sleeping, trying to drive it away with the knowledge that he was here and safe but that felt all too precarious right now, with the bandage around John's arm gleaming whitely in the morning light. 

Sherlock reached out for him, touching his fingers to the top of John's head and then smoothing his palm over his hair when John gave no sign of waking at the sensation. _I didn't realise a friendship could mean so much,_ he thought. He needed this one with John to last his whole life.

__He occupied his mind with thoughts of growing old with John still beside him in an attempt to block out the images of John's cold and lifeless body. He wondered if they'd still be watching John's Doctor Who DVDs when they were in their eighties, or if John would have moved on to some other cheaply-made sci-fi by then._ _

__It was only when John began to stir awake and Sherlock was forced to remove his hand from his hair that he realised those thoughts made one of his basic, long-held assumptions null and void. If his friendship with John was so important that he was hoping it would be one of the cornerstones of his life, then there was no way that having sex with John would damage that. How could the strength of his affection for John be diminished by anything, let alone finally getting physically close to him?_ _

__John's eyes blinked open and he stared at Sherlock as if he had forgotten he was there. Possibly he had – or was Sherlock meant to have left in the night, once he'd got past the emotional difficulties caused by his nightmare?_ _

__“Um,” said John, in a rusty, barely-awake voice. “Good morning.”_ _

__“Morning,” returned Sherlock, his mind still too taken up with the idea that he could have John, that he could press his lips to John's, and not have to worry that it would end his pleasure at the man's company. He could finally have sex with him. The thought paralysed him with anticipation. The sooner the better, if they were going to do it – the next Sean might be less boring and so last rather longer. He should have sex with John as soon as his injuries were healed enough for it._ _

__“Did you sleep okay?” asked John after a pause that said his brain was still warming up._ _

__“I slept,” Sherlock said, and then wondered if John knew the significance of that. The last time he had been able to sleep with someone else in the room, he'd been twelve and had still thought Mycroft was to be trusted._ _

__“Right,” said John in a tone that made it clear that he didn't get the importance of it. All those times when he had woken up to find men sleeping on the sofa rather than sharing Sherlock's bed, and yet he had apparently never realised what that meant. Well, Sherlock supposed it wasn't as if he'd really want those men in his bedroom even if he could have slept with them there._ _

__John sat up very slowly and carefully. The distance that put between them made Sherlock want to reach out and pull him back, hold him close against his body so that he could feel the sleepy warmth of his skin. One day soon, he would have that. A few hours in which to discover what all those sensations would be like, and then he could finally move on from wondering about it all the time._ _

__“We should have sex,” he blurted out, and then winced at his bluntness. John tended to agree to things more readily if he'd been led into them slowly, rather than had them sprung upon him. That shouldn't matter, though – it wasn't as if John didn't want to have sex with Sherlock. He'd say yes regardless of how Sherlock phrased it._ _

__John's head turned so fast that Sherlock thought it must have hurt. “What?” he asked, staring at Sherlock as if he was insane, rather than simply suggesting that they finally indulge in what they'd both been thinking about for years._ _

__“We should have sex,” repeated Sherlock. Surely the sentence was self-explanatory?_ _

__“What the hell? Why?” asked John._ _

__Apparently John was going to ask a whole series of obvious questions this morning. Sherlock wondered if his brain was always this slow when he'd just woken up, or if his medication was having a debilitating effect._ _

__“Because we both want to,” he said._ _

__“What happened to not wanting to make things awkward? And not wanting to get bored of me?” asked John._ _

__Both good questions, but Sherlock wasn't sure how to answer them. How was he meant to explain the certainty that he had gained that he would never bore of John? There didn't seem to be words for the feeling of warmth that filled his chest when he thought of John, and the rightness that came with the idea of spending the rest of his life being his best friend?_ _

__“You could have died,” he said instead, because that was a much easier explanation. Besides, that had been the catalyst for the realisation. “We might never have been able to.”_ _

__“And what? That would have ruined your record?” asked John, sounding perplexed._ _

__Once again, John was failing to understand how Sherlock worked. It wasn't about having a record, it was about experiencing everything possible. “No,” said Sherlock, preparing to try and explain that, but John didn't give him a chance._ _

__He held up a hand to stop Sherlock speaking and said, “We're not having sex just because you're worried I'll die and leave you without some of your precious bloody data. And we're not having sex just because you haven't in a few days and I'm the most convenient person.”_ _

__That was completely the wrong end of the stick. If Sherlock just wanted sex, then he could have easily slipped out to a club while John was sleeping last night, found someone there and then made it home – probably before midnight. Or he could just have finished off his attempted wank if he hadn't wanted to leave the flat. This wasn't about that, or even about data in the way that John meant. Sherlock wasn't going to be using the experience for comparison on his website, or for any of the experiments that he currently had running._ _

__“That's not it at all,” he said._ _

__“I don't care,” said John, getting out of bed and going even further away. How had this conversation gone so wrong? John wanted Sherlock – they both knew he did. Why hadn't he just said yes? “We already talked about this and nothing has changed since then. If you want a shag, you'll have to go off and find one somewhere else.”_ _

__“I don't want 'a shag',” said Sherlock. “I want you.”_ _

__John paused and turned to look at him for a long moment. Sherlock felt hope rise up in his chest._ _

__“And what would happen after?” John asked._ _

__“After?” repeated Sherlock. What did that matter? It was the sex itself that was important, not the aftermath. Oh, unless John was worried it would have a detrimental effect on their friendship, but Sherlock had no intention of letting that happen. He just had to make that clear. “I don't know. The same things we always do – breakfast, I suppose. It wouldn't have to be awkward if we didn't want it to be.” He moved closer to John, trying to close some of the distance that John had put between them. “Come on, John. It would only be one time, and then we could get on without thinking about it any more.”_ _

__That would be good. Sherlock could barely remember what it had been like to have thoughts that weren't constantly overcome with speculation about what John would be like in bed. It would be nice to finally know what it was like so that he could concentrate on other things._ _

__“Yeah,” said John, nodding. “One time. That's the problem, Sherlock. I told you before, I'm not interested in sex on its own. I'm looking for more than that.”_ _

__What kind of more was there? Surely even a relationship was just sex, albeit only ever with the same person? Sherlock had never understood people's fascination with wanting that. Surely it was just endlessly boring? Why on earth would John turn down sex with Sherlock because of that?_ _

__John turned away, heading for the door again._ _

__“John-” said Sherlock, trying to keep him in the conversation so that he could persuade him._ _

__“We've finished talking about this,” said John in the tone of voice that meant he wasn't going to let Sherlock continue the discussion, and he left the room without looking back._ _

__Sherlock watched him go, dumbfounded. In all the many times he had fantasised about finally giving in and having sex with John, he had never once considered that he'd say no. It didn't make any sense at all – John wanted him, Sherlock knew that. He'd wanted him from that first night, when Sherlock had pulled him up onto one of the podiums at the Criterion to prove that the endorphins and adrenalin caused by dancing were enough to eradicate John's psychosomatic limp. John had looked at Sherlock then with a look that Sherlock was very familiar with, one that said _I am experiencing high levels of arousal, and will be amenable to almost any sexual scenario you suggest.__ _

__That look had reappeared often throughout their friendship, usually without any subtlety to it at all. Half the gay scene in London must have known that John was Sherlock's for the taking, and yet- And yet. Here he was, sat alone in John's bed, having been rejected for the first time in years. This was completely unacceptable._ _


End file.
